


Any Shelter in a Storm

by fleet_of_red



Series: The Simple Act of Saving You [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Blink And You Miss It Slash, Canon-Typical Violence, Daddy Issues, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 06:54:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16424513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleet_of_red/pseuds/fleet_of_red
Summary: While waiting for a storm to pass during a training mission with Slade, Jason’s bloody past catches up with him.Good thing there is shelter nearby.





	Any Shelter in a Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place during Red Hood: Lost Days.
> 
> Written for the SladeRobinWeek 2018 event, with the prompt: Rescue

Jason wrinkles his nose as a drop of rain hits his forehead and rolls down. He looks skywards and idly scratches the itch left by the trail of the droplet. “Storm clouds are gathering--we there soon?”  
  
He has to remind himself that this is all part of Talia’s plan to prepare him for the battle to come; the battle he will wage against Batman. Hasn’t she helped him this far? He trusts her as much as he could trust anyone; which is, admittedly, not a lot.  
  
They’re both using each other, but he trusts that it’s in her own self-interest to not have him killed just yet. And honestly, that’s enough for him. Which is why he is currently allowing himself to trudge along behind the footsteps of Slade Wilson, Deathstroke, as they make their way through an uninhabited jungle in Laos.  
  
“If you don’t want to be here, you can turn around and leave,” Slade says as he takes another swing of the machete in his hand, clearing their path through thick foliage. “I keep the payment for dealing with you either way.”  
  
Job shadowing, he calls it. In theory, it works. Unlike the formally structured lessons with his previous instructors, he has followed Slade for the past three weeks as he took on assassination contracts.  
  
So far, he’s watched him snipe a would-be warlord in the Nigerian countryside, killed a business tycoon in her own skyscraper in Malaysia, and now they’re in this part of the world to kill a rebel commander on the brinks of civil war.  
  
“Yeah, but if I leave, who’s going to carry all this shit for you?” Jason groans as he shifts the weight on his shoulders.  
  
In between the traveling and killing, Slade had trained him in hand-to-hand combat and improved his proficiency with various firearms. But mostly, Jason cleaned and maintained the guns, and carried their equipment from place to place like a beast of burden.  
  
Honestly, being treated like an assistant reminds him uncomfortably of his tenure playing second fiddle to Batman.  
  
“Call it weight training,” Slade shrugs with indifference. Jason grits his teeth. The fucker doesn’t even _try_.  
  
“Yeah, whatever. I’m not an idiot,” Jason mutters, but Slade doesn’t reply, refusing to stoop to childish banter, even with such low hanging fruits.  
  
Jason supposes that Talia had to, as a matter of professional courtesy, pre-warn Slade about his unsavory track record of disposing his instructors.  
  
Slade’s response to that information had been to warn him, in no uncertain terms, that if he tries to attack him he better finishes the job.  
  
As he had put it, “Otherwise, that pain you felt in the Lazarus Pit coming back from the dead will feel like a luxurious spa compares to what I’ll do to you.”  
  
Right. Duly noted.  
  
Not that Deathstroke fits the profile of some of his dearly departed instructors, like the German who sold kids into slavery. While Slade’s killed plenty, the mercenary followed his own code of honor, and Jason’s never been one to see things in black and white.    
  
But...moments like this, when Jason’s hauling over eighty pounds of weapons and gear over rough terrain for _hours_ , he imagines killing him anyway.  
  
“C’mon, pick up your pace,” Slade glances back at Jason as he pauses briefly to gather his breath.  
  
So far, he has come up with fifteen, not at all honorable ways, to kill his latest mentor.  
  
They arrive at a small clearing at the edge of the jungle, just before the rain starts pouring down.  
  
“Here’s the outpost before the mountain pass. It’ll shelter us through the worst part of the storm,” Slade says, pointing to a deserted structure that has partly been reclaimed by nature.  
  
Jason must have made a grunt of disgust because Slade then scoffs, “Oh, are you accustomed to much fancier accommodations when you ran with Batman?”  
  
“No,” Jason bristles.  
  
The man can always get under his skin, especially since Talia had confirmed Jason’s past identity and association with Batman to Slade when he had asked.  
  
“He would’ve figured it out eventually,” Talia had explained to Jason in that patient tone she uses with him, “and now he can better tailor his lesson plans to help you.” Except, so far, all Slade has done with the knowledge has been to press his buttons.  
  
So what if it’s true, that the safe houses he stayed in with Batman, in Gotham or abroad, were clean and usually well stocked with supplies. And that they even had a butler offering hot cocoa and snacks during late nights in the Batcave? It doesn’t matter, because that’s all in the past.    
  
“Start unpacking,” Slade orders, and kicks open the flimsy door. Jason follows him into the building, which smells even worse than it looked from the outside.  
  
Its interior was large, but part of the structure had started to crumble inwards from a landslide. It looks like it was used as a storage space for merchants traveling to and from mountain posts. A cluttered office lies in the back of the building. It doesn’t look like anyone’s been here for years, judging by the layer of dust on every surface of the warehouse.     
  
Jason picks a clear spot on the ground and slides the bundles of equipment and supplies from his sore shoulders with a satisfying ‘thud’.  
  
“So, I’ve been wondering…”, he rants as he unties a cord tying a few boxes of ration together, “Aren’t you double dipping?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I mean, Talia’s paying you to train me, right? But you’re dragging me around to help you on your contracts that you’re also being compensated for?”  
  
“What’s your point, kid?”  
  
“Maybe I deserve a cut of the profit,” Jason suggests with a raised brow.  
  
“Oh, _I’ll_ give you a _cut_ if you don’t stop whining,” Slade replies with a low chuckle. “Besides, this isn’t your first unpaid internship now, is it?”  
  
Jason grimaces and turns back to his task at hand. Any mention of his past with Batman always darkens his mood.  
  
Slade picks up a bar of ration and a roll of sleeping bag from the pile of supplies Jason’s still organizing and says, “Rest up. If the weather clears tomorrow, we’ll need to track through the mountain to get to the rebel camp.”  
  
He pauses briefly to ponder the heavy rain as it hits the roof of the building. “At least we know they’re not relocating in this weather,” he observes, before taking his bedding to the office enclosure and setting up for the night.  
  
Following his cue, Jason grabs his sleeping bag and walks to the opposite end of the building and places it in a corner. He’s glad that at least there’s no lesson in weaponry or combat tonight. He does not have Slade’s enhanced strength and recovery, and the trek through the jungle carrying the bulk of their supplies exhausted him.  
  
He groans as he bends over to roll out the sleeping bag, feeling the tenderness of a bruised rib. Definitely not in the mood to be Slade’s punching bag right now, especially since he never pulls his punches.  
  
Jason lies down and pulls the cover over himself when a feeling of unease washes over him. The view of the dim warehouse from this angle feels vaguely familiar, but he can’t quite figure out why. The sound of the rain above him soon chases the thought away.    
  
It rains frequently in Gotham, but the rain back home comes in light drizzles; a wet mist mixed in with the smoke of the city and reflects back a kaleidoscope of neon lights on every wet surface. Unlike the rain he grew up with, the storm outside makes it sound like the sky is being unleashed.  
  
Jason snaps his eyes shut. He refuses to feel homesick, not when he no longer has a home.  
  
The last thing he hears before he falls asleep is the sound of pellet-like raindrops hitting the metal-slated roof like a constant drumroll playing in waves of crescendo.  
  
\----  
Tic...tic...tic…  
  
Jason stirs as a particular rhythm wakes him. He opens his eyes, still groggy with sleep.  
  
What little moonlight coming through the grimy windows barely helps him see in the darkness around him. Yet, as he squints, slowly acquainting to the darkness, he can make out a string of dim, horizontal green lights flickering in the near distance. It’s the source of the sound.  
  
Then he sees it: an electronic timer counting down on top of a bundle of dynamite sticks. Jason’s heart jumps to his throat.    
  
Tic...tic...tic…  
  
“Wha--?” the noise from his throat comes out a wet croak, and he can taste blood on his bottom lip. He tries to push himself up to his knees, but his hands are tied behind his back.  
  
A sound of metal scraping against rough concrete catches his attention. He turns to the approaching noise.  
  
“Looks like little tweety bird is awake,” a voice hums with glee.  
  
He can never forget that voice. “No, no, it can’t be,” Jason whispers.  
  
Joker steps into a spotlight dragging a bloody crowbar behind him.  
  
“I was worried I might’ve whacked you in the head too hard earlier,” the clown’s wild bulging eyes stare down at him.  
  
“I was afraid you’d expire before the fireworks!” he cackles maniacally, pointing to the countdown on the dynamite, which displays “8:24” and decreasing every second.  
  
“You’re not fucking real,” Jason hisses, his wrists burning against the rope that binds them together.    
  
“Oh, I’m the most real thing in this world, lambchop!” Joker swings the crowbar down on his shoulder in a bone shattering hit. Jason screams.  
  
“I know it’s all so confusing, pumpkin,” he coos with pouting red lips. “What is more realistic, I wonder? A handsome devil like _moi_?” He whips out a handheld mirror and bats his eyelashes at the reflection. “Or, a little birdy who gets blown up and comes back from the dead? Ha Ha Ha!”  
  
He slaps Jason’s injured shoulder and laughs like it’s the greatest joke. “I don’t know, _you_ tell me what’s more believable!”  
  
Without waiting for a reply, Joker brings the crowbar down again and Jason’s chest flares up with pain and he whimpers. The smell and taste of copper overwhelming his senses.  
  
“Did you think you were elsewhere, Boyo? Ho ho, you’re just confused about what’s real because you’ve lost your marbles!” Joker chortles and reaches into his purple pockets for a handful of glass marbles.  
  
“Here you go!” he throws them at Jason and giggles as they bounce off him.    
  
Joker straightens up and flicks some dust away from his jacket as he comments with a dramatic shrug, “But let’s be serious, it’s not like you’ll be needing them for much longer. In a minute, your brain will be splattered all along the walls of this warehouse!”  
  
The countdown on the clock suddenly speeds up, numbers flickering and flashing in a blur, and when it finally slows down again, it displays “1:03”.  
  
Jason’s eyes widen as he stares at the time he has left. “No, no--!” He tries to wriggle free of his restraints, but they won’t budge.  
  
“Oh, yes, yes, YES!” Joker howls with laughter and twirls around with the crowbar like he’s waltzing. “Do you think Bats will arrive in time to save you?”  
  
He grabs Jason by the hair and whispers directly into his ear. “Spoiler alert: He _won’t_. He will arrive just in time to see his baby soldier blasted into pieces.”  
  
Joker tightens his grip on Jason’s hair and slams his head into the ground. His eyes glisten as pain radiates from his skull but the Joker just keeps yowling.  
  
“And something tells me you already know that, don’t you? Hahaha! Go on, call for _daddy_ to come save you! GO ON!”  
  
“ _Kid!_ ”  
  
Jason strains to listen for any sound that would indicate Batman’s close, but all he can hear is the clock as the seconds roll down.  
  
Tic...tic...tic…  
  
“ _Jas--_ ”  
  
Someone’s calling for him. Batman!  
  
He wants to turn towards the voice but his head whips back as Joker hits him across the face. “Pay attention, Buttercup! You don’t want to miss your grand finale, do you?”  
  
The clown yanks him up to his knees and shoves his face right in front of the dynamite.  
  
“10...9...8…”  
  
Jason closes his eyes in resignation. Batman won’t make it in time.  
  
“ _ROBIN!_ ”  
  
Jason snaps his eyes wide open and gasps like a drowning man. His heart thundering in his ears.  
  
“Batman!” He twists around frantically, looking for the dynamite, for Joker, for Batman, but all he can only see is Slade, kneeling in front of him.  
  
The rain dropped the temperature considerably, but Jason is drenched in cold sweat.  
  
“Hey kid, you were having a nightmare,” Slade says with an iron grip on his shoulder. “I tried to wake you--slapped you, even--but you didn’t stir.”  
  
Jason had bit his lip during the nightmare, and the taste of blood still fills his senses. The rain had stopped to barely a drizzle, with occasional drops onto the roof. Tic...tic...tic…  
  
God. It felt so _real_.  
  
“I heard you mutter for ‘Batman’ as you thrashed around,” the older man explains, “so I tried calling you ‘Robin’. Seems like that got to you.”  
  
Oh.  
  
“I…” Jason is still shaking, his nerves telling him to run. To escape! An echo of his laughter still rings in his ears. But as the fear and panic subside, another emotion replace them: shame.  
  
Jason wipes his face with an arm--wet with tears--and can’t even look Slade in the eye.  
  
As much as he hates to admit it, he does care about what Slade thinks of him. Wants him to think that he’s capable, worthy of his time and attention; not a child who cries from a nightmare.  
  
“I’m...I’m fine now. Just leave me alone...” Jason shrugs off the hand on his shoulder as his face turns pink.  
  
“I don’t think so,” Slade dismisses and picks Jason up--still tangled in his sleeping bag--from the floor in one swoop, like he weighs nothing.  
  
“Slade!” Jason yelps, his face turning an even darker shade of pink. “Put me down!”  
  
“It’s not the first time I’ve dealt with someone having a nightmare,” Slade says matter of factly and ignores Jason’s feeble whines of protest. “We have work tomorrow, and sleep deprivation will get you killed.”  
  
He carries Jason to the small office and places him down next to his own sleeping bag. Jason realizes he was gripping onto Slade’s shirt and lets go promptly.  
  
“What do you care, you said you already got paid.”  
  
“Talia promised me a bonus if I return you in one piece,” Slade shrugs and lowers himself onto the floor next to him and into a comfortable position. He pulls his sleeping bag over himself.  
  
“Well that’s just--”  
  
“Close your eyes and sleep!”  
  
Jason turns away with a small huff of indignation and gets under his cover.  
  
He still smells blood and he runs his tongue over the cut on his lip, tasting it. Strange, it’s been so long since he’s had a nightmare.  
  
He had them frequently as a kid. Before Batman, his nightmares mostly featured his mother choking on her own vomit during a drug binge or such. Or dreams of his parents arguing and fighting nonstop, ending with his father shooting them both with a gun.  
  
As Robin, nightmares were filled with visions of Batman dying--getting buried under a sea of faceless henchmen--with him watching from the sideline, unable to help. Or dreams of Bruce walking past him in the alley where he first found him and just...dismissing him and keeps on walking no matter how much Jason screamed and begged for him to turn around.  
  
Jason gulps. He hasn’t had a nightmare since coming back from the Pit...until now. He even thought maybe the pool’s magical properties took away his affinity for nightmares. Guess not. Not with his luck.  
  
An arm curls around his waist and pulls him closer, breaking his train of thought and anchoring him to the here and now.  
  
“Don’t overthink it,” Slade whispers behind him, his rich baritone voice reverberates through Jason and he can feel every syllable as he speaks. “Dreams don’t mean anything.”  
  
The scent of blood fades away, replaced by the scent of the man next to him. Comforting, and slightly familiar.  
  
Jason can feel Slade’s steady breath brushing against the back of his head. With his chest pressed right up against his back, he can feel the rise and fall of each breath, like ocean waves lapping on the shore.  
  
“Sleep,” the deep voice murmurs again, and Jason closes his eyes.  
  
In the dream that follows--one which Jason will not remember when he wakes--Batman arrives in time to save him.

**Author's Note:**

> Some thoughts:  
> Headcanon: Slade has the experience of comforting his kids through nightmares before...But that's a thought neither he nor Jason wants to examine too deeply.
> 
> I had way too much fun writing joker. 
> 
> Perhaps Slade would be offended, but the title = eh, you’ll do. ‘shrug’
> 
> I drew as I wrote, with the intention of having a piece of fanart to accompany this fic. But somehow, their paths diverted so I posted the art separately under the title: “A Peaceful Slumber”. 
> 
>  
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/fleet_red) and [Tumblr](https://fleet-of-red.tumblr.com/)


End file.
